


Sing Into My Mouth

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles Week, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romance, tough mudder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen is a man of few words--until the right inspiration strikes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing Into My Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> For Cockles Week 2015.
> 
> Based on this lovely art prompt by the amazing [deadpai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deadpai/pseuds/deadpai)!

Jensen is a man of few words.

Part of it is that he's spent his whole life talking, it seems like. At least in front of the camera. You spend all day saying the same thing over and over again from three different freaking angles and suddenly silence seems like a pretty good deal.

And part of it, too, is personality. He doesn't feel the need to jabber. Never did. Hell, even as a kid, he could say more with an eyebrow than Kerouac could in ten pages. 

This is actually a good thing, Jensen learns, in modeling. Acting, too. It's a gift. But in his day-to-day, those few precious hours he gets to spend away from this set or that one, it's a little trickier, his inclination to keep his mouth shut. 

To girlfriends, to best friends, to his little sister, his dad: there’s so much that Jensen wants to be able to say, to express in some way that’s more permanent than a smile, even one that’s captured on film.

But words aren’t his thing, never have been. At least ones that he has to come up with himself.

So it's not Misha's fault, Jensen's anxiety over his twist tie of a tongue. No, Misha just puts it all up there in neon. Because Misha has a way with words, a way of making the English language seem foreign and exquisite, and this is true, always: but sex makes it doubly so.

The first time they fucked in Jensen's bed, for instance. It was the first time they weren't in a hurry. The first time he got to see Misha completely undressed.

Misha was rolling into him, a thousand tidal waves smashed into slow motion. "Yes," he said against Jensen's mouth. "Just like that, Jen. Let me in."

Which was beside the point: he already _was_ in, heart and cock and soul, and Jensen was good with that, really, he was, but he also wanted to come sometime this decade.

"Mish," he said, sloppy, jerking himself faster, digging his free hand into Misha's back, the dirty curve of his spine. "Fuck. Please. Come on, baby, please."

Misha laughed. Hoisted himself up so they were nose to nose. "Am fucking you," he said. "Can't you tell? Hmm. Must be doing something wrong."

He was sweating, great echoes of heat blooming over Jensen's body, through it, from it, and only Misha had ever done this to him, stripped him down to the earth's crust, to its core, and the certainty Jensen saw there, that Misha had pointed him towards like some mad gorgeous hound: 

He'd been living someone else's lines his whole life. 

The words of another man, another him, because this was who he was, right here: the one who could make Misha look like that, who could make Misha look at him like that, bright eyes like a Gutenberg Bible cracked at the spine, spilling its secrets all over the bed.

"Mish," he said again, grabbing at Misha's hair, at his own cock, dark and wet. "Gonna come. Fuck! Harder, honey. I'm gonna come, you're gonna make me come, I—"

Misha swore. Tumbled down again, his hands going fists beside Jensen's ears as he kicked into high gear. "Yeah," he said, and Jensen could hear him smiling. "Yeah, I am, sweetheart. Fuck yes. Love it when you come like this, with me tucked up inside you. Please, Jen. Lemme feel it. Come on.”

Jensen turned his face into Misha's throat, gasping, as he jerked himself to it, through it, as Misha fucked him harder, righteous and fast.

They'd never been like this before, skin to skin and stretched out, caught together head and foot, and when Jensen came, a thousand fireflies in his eyes, he could feel every inch of Misha's body shake with it, how good he'd made Jensen feel.

"Shit," Misha panted, "Jensen. Needles of applejack under my tongue, needles, I—” He shuddered, like a ship that’d just struck a sandbar. “Oh god, you’re so beautiful, fuck, Jensen, _fuck_ , yes you are.”

And like this, eye to eye, thigh to thigh, Misha was sunlight, sunstroke, burnt by the sun and alight, a light that Jensen got to hold on to.

That first time, then, that Misha got all poetic, his words were eclipsed by his body, by the sounds he made as Jensen kissed him, after: low and hurt and pleased, like the pleasure had sunk into his bones, burrowed into his blood. 

"I adore you," Misha said in the morning, draped over Jensen's chest like a sexed-up shroud, "but you hoard the blankets again and you're sleeping on the floor, motherfucker."

It happened again in Chicago, though, in the last hours of a con: Misha’s back against the door, his legs wrapped around Jensen's waist as Jensen jerked them both in his fist and lapped at Misha's throat, doing his goddamndest not to bite, not to mark.

Misha was babbling, fucking Jensen's fingers and grinning wider and wider the closer he got, both of them hot from a long day of not touching, not looking too long, and Jensen loved it like this. Loved when Misha was teetering like a house of cards on the edge of a tornado, when he looked just as incoherent as he always made Jensen feel when they were like this, close. So close. 

And then Misha's eyes flew open and he clawed Jensen's neck and breathed: "Olives underground lavender doves, Jensen, oh!” and gave it up hard, messy and loud and all over Jensen's good jeans and it was so worth it, shit.

"Wait," Jensen said, later. "Us fucking makes you think of olives?"

Misha twisted in his arms. "No," he said, sleepy slurry. " _You_ make me think of olives. Or you did in that moment, anyway."

Jensen snorted. Shifted around in the sheets, tugging Misha with him. "Dude, that makes no kind of sense."

"Well," Misha said. "Inspiration is weird. Hmm. More like wyrd, a sister of craft, maybe, a second cousin of practice, but a creature with a mind of her own."

"Ah," Jensen said, because he was fucked out and Misha was warm and it felt so good to close his eyes, right then. "Yeah. Uh huh."

And after that, Jensen just rolled with it: Misha going all Shakespeare when they were together, when they were fucking, hell. It was one of those things that happened sometimes, like him getting the giggles when Misha was rimming him or Misha falling asleep with the condom still on. One of the quirks that made sex with somebody—with Misha—unique.

Like Misha sweeping kisses up his thighs and sighing: "Green green grass at the crest of a well. Spires of a drowned city on the back of my hand."

Like Jensen on his knees in the kitchen, Misha's hands anxious in his hair. Misha saying: "Bruised roses and coffee, _shit_. Bruised fucking roses, Jen. Bittersweet."

Like at Misha’s birthday party, after everyone had finally left, _finally_ , a steady stream of kids and dogs and co-stars out of Misha’s front door. 

Misha, he’d tasted like cream cheese cupcakes when Jensen finally got to kiss him, to unwrap him, to push him into the bed, the four-poster number Misha’d made himself from what he claimed was recalcitrant pine.

"Settle down, darlin,’" Jensen said, weaving his fingers down Misha’s spine. "There’s no need to hurry now, is there?”

Misha groaned. Bucked like an unhappy horse and worked his dick against the mattress. "No need for you, maybe. Some of us, however, have been hard since we blew out the candles.”

"And whose problem is that?" Jensen nipped a rib, let his tongue twang at another. "Some of us have self-control, old man. Maybe you should try it."

"Fuck you," Misha spat. "By which I mean: fuck me already, you fucking tease."

Jensen laughed, pressed the sound against Misha's ass. And down. "Shut up. You love it."

"Fuck yes," Misha said, rocking back rude against Jensen's tongue, his thighs shaking as Jensen spread him wider. "Goddamn right I do. Jen. _Jensen_. Fuck."

His voice went mushy then, hungry and hot, and Jensen took that as a point of pride.

Only when Jensen was inside him did Misha's mouth manage to rally.

He was in Jensen's lap, his dick getting hard again as he rode Jensen just right, just perfect, so good that Jensen stopped fighting and just let himself loll, his hair crushed against the headboard, the wood that Misha had tamed, carved and cut. 

Misha kissed his throat, cinnamon and sage. Kissed him and touched his face, his fingertips running over Jensen's eyelids, his ears, his mouth. 

"When you look at me," Misha murmured, "I see everything that I am to be. All that is possible, in this life, Jensen, I see it here. With you.”

Jensen open his mouth and the noise that escaped was an earthquake, a howl, and Misha echoed it, sucked the sound into Jensen's shoulder, his arms going tight around Jensen's neck.

"Yeah," Misha whispered. "I know."

Truth be told, Jensen loved them, hoarded them, Misha’s half-born verses, because they were something Jensen knew he’d never be able to return in kind.

Misha was the evil wordsmith, ok, everybody knew that. Fine. But still, it bothered Jensen that most of the time the best bon mots he could toss in the sheets were collages of _fuck_ and _yes_ and a dozen dirty versions of Misha’s name.

It bothered him because when they were at their most electric, orgasmic, Mish was able to distill what he felt down to an essence, an original oil that tasted like honey, that slipped down Jensen's throat like a song. 

But Jensen, he came up blanks. His brain did, anyway, right at the moments when he wanted words the most. When he wanted to be able to say _I love you_ in a way that was big enough, strange enough, sweet enough to encompass all the crazy shit that Misha made him feel. 

After a while, though, Jensen quit worrying about it, his lack of linguistic skill, and focused on Misha instead: his love of cedar-scented soap, the way sawdust clung to his hair, the folksongs he hummed as he cooked. 

And those little scraps of verses, too:

_Stained glass on the soles of my feet_

_Concrete, the photostat of your smile_

_A backstreet concordance in which I have scribbled your name_

All things considered, then, maybe Jensen shouldn’t have been surprised that it was only when he stopped looking for her, waiting, that inspiration deigned to appear.

Strike that: she staged a damn sneak attack.

  


* * *

  


A face full of mud. Somebody's boot in his back. The sound of Jared laughing like a cracked-up hyena: that's when it hits him. 

The first line. Then the second. And the third.

He chants them to himself as they move through the course: Speight wearing his _don't fuck with me_ face and Rob’s a clean split between exhilarated and terrified. Up the rope and over the wall, across rickety platforms and ankle deep in the nastiest sucking mud he's ever seen, much less jumped into, Jensen keeps those words tucked into his teeth.

At the end, he's filthy, they all are, and there's no goddamn paper for miles. None in Speight's truck, either, and by the time they make it back to civilization, Jensen fucking bolts through Jason's front door and commandeers the nearest pen. Or golf pencil. Whatever.

"Inspiration," he says to Jared's confusion, to Jason's catcalls, to Speight's middle finger. "It's weird. Gotta write this shit down."

Ten minutes and it's all there, on paper, and then he can't stop smiling.

"You're leaving?" Jared says, little kid disappointed. "Aw, man. I thought we were gonna—"

"Tsk tsk," Speight says from behind his beer. "You know how it is when duty calls. Or booty calls. Same difference.”

Rob frowns at him, at the three inches of mud on his boots, on his knees. "Um, I don't know, dude. Maybe you should take a shower first."

He doesn’t. Goes straight for his car and taps the tune out as he drives. Holds the lyrics against the wheel and sings to the people stopped beside him on the 101, to the sunset, to the dark.

The house is quiet when he finally hits the driveway. Which makes sense. He wasn't supposed to be home until tomorrow.

For a second, he just sits there, crumbling dirt all over the floorboards and wondering if maybe Misha is out. If he called up Jim for dinner or went bowling or headed out for a midnight run. It’s happened before.

But then a light flickers on inside and Jensen’s up, out of the car in two shakes.

Upstairs, Misha is semi-upright on the couch. He’s in dress pants and a white shirt, both of them creased all to hell. Blinks as Jensen lingers in the doorway.

"Hey," Misha says, scratchy. "You're home early."

"Yeah," Jensen says. "Got something I need to tell you."

"Huh," Misha says. "Ok."

It takes a second to tune the guitar, to settle the pick in his fingers. The dried dirt makes it hard to get a good grip.

"Ok," Jensen says. "So. Um."

Misha is sitting up now, watching him, full and fixed, like he's not covered in muck and smelling like the track at a drag race. His face goes hot and for the first time in four hours, this seems like a terrible idea.

"Jensen," Misha says. "Tell me."

It's easier just to sing, after that.

_You're a twinge in my lower quad, baby_  
_You're a charley horse inside my heart_  
_You're a pulled groin ___  
_A stinger ___  
_A bad elbow sprain_  
_A clean break I want to stay broke_

The tune is slow, late-night country. Nothing to write home about, maybe, but the look on Misha's face says, yeah. It's enough.

 _Something in me was hurt for a long time_ , Jensen sings. _That is, until you came along_.

_You muddied the waters_  
_A freak summer storm_  
_That flattened the corn_  
_And left a new maze in its wake_

Misha’s on his feet, breathing big and blue into Jensen's face. He’s pressed so close that Jensen’s knuckles catch the buttons of his shirt as Jensen plays out the last few bars.

_You don't kill the pain, no_  
_You make it sweeter. And simpler._  
_Now I ache when I'm not with you._

It's really quiet, after. Really still.

And then Misha's reaching, lifting the guitar from his hands and leaning back to set it on the couch.

"Misha," Jensen says.

"Shut up," Misha says, tight, in a voice Jensen doesn't know. "You beautiful bastard. Shut the hell up."

Then they’re kissing, or Misha is: winding himself around Jensen like kudzu, demanding, his tongue a hailstorm inside Jensen’s mouth.

Jensen leans into it, catches Misha’s shoulder, his waist, and it’s like stroking a thunderbolt, touching Misha. Like holding a hummingbird, one whose wings are crawling under his shirt, over his chest, over the layers of sweat and dirt and the god only knows what was in that mud, and—

"Hey,” Jensen gets out, grinding the word against Misha’s ear, “baby, I'm fucking filthy. You sure you want to—?“

Misha wrenches his head, gives Jensen a look that could turn lesser men to salt. "I don't give a shit," he says, and god, Jensen can feel it now: Misha's shaking. "Jesus, Jen. Jesus."

And all at once they’re moving, there’s motion, ok, because Misha is pushing him, around the armchair and out the door and they’re slamming their way down the hall to the bathroom. Misha strips him, twists the water to hot and shoves him against the soapdish; rubs him clean, rubs him off, rubs his face against Jensen's cheek as Jensen gives it up and breathes: "Jesus, Jen. Jesus."

In the bedroom, theirs, Jensen puts Misha on his back on the bed, the one with Jensen's million-count sheets and Misha's scratchy old comforter he swears he can’t sleep without. He works Misha open, slick and steady, and fucks him out slow, touching everything, everywhere.

"This good?" Jensen says, watching Misha’s eyes dip with each thrust. And sway. "Do you like this? Is this what you want from me, darlin’?”

Misha's mouth moves, Jensen can see it, but no words come out. No poetry. Just noise, a steady downpour of love. 

Misha arches his back instead, digs his knees into Jensen's side and begs for it with his whole body.

"Yeah," Jensen says, dipping his hand between them. Catching Misha's dick in his fist. "It’s good, isn’t it, honey, huh? Yeah, it is.”

"You didn't have to do that," Misha says, later. Much, judging by the light seeping in through the blinds. “I’m not complaining, hell no. But. You know you didn’t have to, right?”

Jensen kisses the back of Misha’s neck. Hitches his hips and tugs Misha tighter against him. "Yeah, well. What can I say? You inspire me, Mish. Finally found the right words for it, is all."

"Mmm," Misha says, licking the sound into Jensen’s palm. Pressing Jensen’s hand to his heart. "Well. Inspiration is weird."

Jensen Ackles is a man of few words. But sometimes, he digs up just the right ones.

“Yeah,” he says, his face in Misha’s hair. “I love you, too."

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to [blue_morning](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_morning/pseuds/blue_morning) for the thoughtful beta!
> 
> Title borrowed with love from the Talking Heads' "This Must Be The Place."


End file.
